The Cobler of Cripplegate

THO' a Cobler is call'd but a low occupation,
The practice of cobling is come into fashion,
From me up to those who wou'd cobble the nation.

Some say that Old England wants heel-piecing, true,
Our Country is trod upon like an old Shoe,
And may Heel-pieces want, aye, and Head-pieces too.

One, vamping our old Constitution pretends,
And turn and translate it to serve self and friends,
All this is but botching to serve their own Ends.

Each Roof in this Island with Liberty rings,
The Good of their Country each Party-man sings,
The Sense of that Phrase is, — My Country's good Things.

If I, but how shou'd I the State have a hand in?
Good souls I'd be picking, the bad be disbanding,
And then we shou'd come to a right understanding.

Against Want the cunning man wifely provides,
A Storm shunning shepherd beneath a bush hides,
So as the Times change we are sure to change Sides.

With my Awl in my hand I'll Old England defend,
Giving room to my betters who've much room to mend,
May they soon become better, or soon have an end.

To those who are heedless what here may mishap,
Their hearts are as hard as the Stone in my lap,
They're taking their swing, wou'd their swing was my Strap.

I begin to wax warm, so I'll close up my seam,
Or else I cou'd hammer out such a fine theme,
It was about something I saw'd in a dream.

To my Last I am come, and that shall not last long,
So this is the last of a poor Cobler's Song,
May they now be right who till now have been wrong.